Love’s Life Preserver: First Aid in the Face of Grief

What is it about expressions of love that helped us so much in the face of great grief? Maybe the following metaphor might help you understand.

The expression “drowning in sorrow” was more than a metaphor for us; we knew it day and night in our repeated day terrors and nightmares wherein we relived Parker’s last minutes. Figuratively, too, the vortex of grief had us grabbing for each other’s hands, gasping for air, but we couldn’t always help each other up from the vicious downward suction.

And wouldn’t you know it. That is just when some fearless, grounded friend expressed love for us, for our three living children, and for Parker, and right then it felt like someone had extended an arm or hurled us a life preserver.

Sometimes that love came to us in words, spoken or written. We have hundreds of archived emails, some of which I’ll share in future posts. We received beautiful, simple letters by conventional mail. We got text messages over months. Phone calls. Soft, cautious conversations that warmed and strengthened us.

Other times, words were unneeded. Love came as a penetrating glance from across the board room. In the form of a CD of gentle music in a padded envelope in the post box. As a single hand placed steadily on the shoulder. Other times it was in a dozen of Aunt Yvonne’s Tangy Lemon Bars.

Whatever it was, that act of love was like a life vest that actually buoyed us up. We could grab on to something bobbing on the surface, filled with the spirit, at once lighter but at the same time more powerful than the darkly spinning whirlpool of grief. For that moment we could breathe. For a while our hearts felt sturdy. Something about simply knowing someone was there on the shore next to us reaching for us – something I still cannot explain but am forever indebted to – gave us hope and stamina to keep fighting from giving up and being pulled completely under the waters of despair.

These people who showed us love (certainly not all members of our faith, by the way) lived by instinct the spirit of a certain well known discourse from Mormon scripture. In that passage I’m thinking of, an ancient prophet outlines what is required in order to enter into the fold of God. His list is instructive: Be willing bear one another’s burdens; Be willing to mourn with those that mourn and comfort those that stand in need of comfort; Stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things.

Here I notice that this charge to mourn and comfort—to sorrow with and to offer power (comfort = con-fortis = with power) to others –– benefits everyone, not just the person drowning. Mourning and comforting are soul-deepening and life-saving also for those who try to rescue. By practicing compassion, we are practicing pure religion, which means we experience being liberated from our own limiting egos to be connected – bound, sealed – in profound unity with others. We discover the thrill of being part of something larger than ourselves, the soothing place of communion, the safety of community.

“Standing as witnesses of God” means standing in for God on the edge of another’s whirlpool of grief, ready to risk our comfort, our safety, our egos, and if necessary our very lives in pulling against the weight of someone else’s discomfort. That calls for great and abiding feeling, soul-deep empathy, even fiery absorption. For most of us, that calls for learning a whole new depth of love.

Love, then – more than therapy, drugs, diversion, anything – is the ultimate aid in grief. It is, at least, the “first aid,” as in the French, premier secours, secours deriving from the same root as the English “to succor.” To succor is to love – intensely, immediately, selflessly and unselfconsciously. Its nature propels that urgent dash to save in the very first moments, that breathless rushing in, that racing-to-resuscitate sort of behavior.

That kind of love is precisely the kind our grieving family received in bulk and over weeks, months, years. We would not be standing if it weren’t for all the love that held us up then and holds us up still.

4 thoughts on “Love’s Life Preserver: First Aid in the Face of Grief”

Thank you, Jack. It’s a start, just a condensed version of the book I could write on the topic. I can’t imagine how one survives great loss without love wrapping itself around the wound, staunching the bleed.

Beautifully written Melissa. I have never lost a loved one to physical death in such a cruel way, but your words resonnate deeply in my soul. For the trials that are my own in this life, your accounts of the horrors of grief and the love that our Heavenly Father provides so abundantly for us, merely echo my own experiences. Your words are a healing balm to my soul and they help me to remember who I must become in order to succor those within my reach, especially those who I love so dearly. Thank you for being so generous in sharing your soul with us. I always read your posts, whether here or on Facebook, and I am always uplifted.

What’s also true is that the reality of deep grief is the sensation of God’s absence. (The greatest spiritual leaders, Christ included, have called out in their distress, asking where the Father is in it all.) I recall that spinning, falling, universe-has-been-upturned feeling, the wrenching away of every notion I’d had of what was good and right and according “to plan.” I battled inwardly to get my foothold, but instinctively turned to spiritual practices to get a grip. My soul was ravenous like never before for spiritual sustenance, so I wouldn’t have abandoned that in this moment. On the contrary. At the same time, because I’ve seen how in terror one can easily slip into the quicksand of despair and bitterness and nihilism, I judge no one who does. I’ve watched so many come unraveled after tragedy, and though I’m weep over their unraveling, I also nod, knowing how that happens.
And Maria, I’m so so grateful that my posts are of value to you. Your work always is for me, too.